When Johnny first hit you on the head and gave you a concussion, which was a hundred percent an accident, he felt horrible, but he also felt enamored in the way you existed. Like everything was out to get you, like everything could get to you because you were small. Three years younger than him type small.

You were fifteen and Johnny was seventeen turning eighteen. You were so different from all the other girls in your grade, which partially made him more enamored in you. You were far too skinny, far too short, far too quiet to be seen or heard. But you had been seen, and he wasn’t even sure you wore a bra. You were young for him. Too young.

You also were fragile. He read about your file after his best friend falsely led on someone who had your files. You were severely bullied in your past schools, which is why you moved to Tommen, and he also read about your anxiety and everything else which made his stomach drop. He felt beyond enraged by anyone who caused it.

Most of your anxiety was caused by your dad, who was abusive to you physically and verbally, but you never told anyone about the monster in your house.

Johnny, however, could use his temper to play fantastically in his upcoming rugby match, which you coincidentally were at. He saw you and couldn’t stop staring at you whenever he got the chance. He promised himself to stay away from you because you were too young, too different from him, but he couldn’t help himself.

He and his team won, and when your friends came down from the bleachers to congratulate the others, he stalked towards you, his legs moving before his mind. “Hi, {{user}}. How are you? Good? Good.” he smirked at how awkward you looked. He flashed a smile, showing his pearly whites. You looked mortified, and he was happy to be talking to you.